The Good, The Bad and The Ghostly ((Paranromal Western Romance))

by Keta Diablo

  At the door, Healy had to drop the box of shortbread on the floor so she could turn the handle. The door swung open and she kicked the box into the room with one dainty boot. At his big walnut desk across the room, Cato Clark stared at the box, which had skidded to a stop at the edge of the oriental carpet like he expected an explosion.

  "Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. I needed to free up a hand to open the door."

  "Oh, I see," said the young man with the British accent, adjusting the pince nez glasses perched on his long nose.

  Healy retrieved the box and put it and her briefcase on a chair. She let out a long, shuddering breath.

  "I say, are you all right, Miss Harrison?"

  Healy turned to face him. "I’m a bit spooked. Literally. I’ve been seeing ghosts. I feel rattled. That’s all."

  Cato crossed his arms over his chest. "If seeing ghosts rattles you, perhaps you’re in the wrong profession."

  "One wonders."

  "One does," he said, with an odd glint in his eyes.

  Healy thought Cato was an interesting looking man. He was nattily dressed as always with his hair parted severely down the middle, and his high collar was so high and stiff on his neck, she wondered how he tolerated it. But his lips were full and sensuous and his hooded eyes had a look like he’d just rolled out of bed, which hinted there was more to him than the prim and proper way he presented himself.

  "Can I offer you some refreshment? Tea? Or something more spirited, if you don’t mind the pun." He stood up and crossed to the sideboard. "You look as if you could use a medicinal brandy."

  "I’m fine, thank you."

  He ignored her and poured a measure of brandy from a decanter into a cut-glass snifter.

  "Nonsense," he said, handing it to her. "You’re not fine. You’ve been seeing dead people. Dreadful business, that."

  She had to admit she was grateful for the liquor, which she tipped back. The fumes reached her first, burning her nostrils. The brandy hit her throat with surprising strength, making her cough and gasp.

  Cato laughed and refilled her glass. "You’re meant to sip it."

  This time she drank the brandy with caution. The heat spread down to her stomach. "I got a message Nat has an assignment for me. Is he in?" she asked, knowing full well what the answer would be.

  Nat was never in the office. Nobody except Cato had ever seen Nat. Whenever the other agents met they speculated about their mysterious employer. Healy assumed Nat was a man, but then someone pointed out Nat could stand for Natalie. Healy liked to try and trip Cato up, but Cato never commented whether she called Nat a ‘he’ or a ‘she.’

  Cato raised an eyebrow. "You just missed Nat. If you had been here five minutes earlier...Anyway, Nat left your travel information here with me to give you."

  Her scalp tightened. "Travel information? Why would I need travel information?"

  "Because, my dear, you are going to Tucson."

  "Not unless there’s a Tucson, Missouri."

  "I don’t know. There may be, but you’re going to the Arizona Territory."

  "I don’t think so. I don’t travel. Nat knows that. She’ll have to send someone else."

  He sighed with exasperation. "There is no one else. All the agents are being sent out west."

  "Why? I would think we have enough ghosts right here to keep everyone busy. People are dying every day right here in St. Louis. Without having to look elsewhere. In far-flung places," she said, trying to stay upright. The liquor made her unsteady and her words came out strange.

  "It’s a curious thing. We’re suddenly getting lots of inquiries from the west. Now whether this is due to the westward migration and people running into existing ghosts, or if the movement has created the trouble, I cannot say. Nat and I debate the point. It could be with the railroad going through and all the mining activities, we have disturbed Indian burial grounds or unleashed spirits trapped in mountains."

  "All the more reason for someone to stay here and keep the local hauntings under control."

  The repeated leaf pattern on the wallpaper came alive. Faces peered out at her. Limbs writhed and danced around the walls. Acanthus, thought Healy. This was the William Morris wallpaper her mother had wanted for the front parlor, but her father said it was too dear.

  "You don’t have a choice."

  "I do. I really do. You can’t force me to go. I’ll find another case. Do you mind if I look in Nat’s office?"

  "I do, actually. Anyway, it’s locked."

  "Then I’ll wait right here until he...she comes back. I’ll sit right here and not bother you."

  "Oh, very well. Take a seat." Cato took a glass bowl off his desk and held it out to her. "Can I offer you a boiled sweet?"

  She reached for a piece of candy, but he must have intended to hand the whole bowl to her. He let go and it fell to the ground. "Sorry," she said, kneeling on the oriental carpet.

  The discs of candy looked like gemstones in a garden of strange-looking flowers. She felt so dizzy. She tried to fix her eye on one flower as her vision blurred and swam. Her forehead hit the stiff, short bristles of the carpet. Everything went black....

  Chapter Five

  The sound of a long, low whistle disturbed her dream, scattering the images playing through her mind like cobwebs blowing apart in the wind before she had the chance to read the pattern. Healy woke but didn’t open her eyes at first; letting her other senses go to work. Odd smell in the air. Hot metal? Her ears tuned into a repetitive click, clacking sound. Her body swayed in time to the sound. Soothing, really.

  She opened her eyes. The dimensions of the room weren’t right. Long and narrow—and moving. Train, she thought. She closed her eyes again and fell asleep.

  She didn’t know how long she’d been asleep. A terrible taste in her mouth woke her this time, with her tongue as dry as cotton wool. Upon opening her eyes, Healy saw a crystal decanter and a glass on the table near the divan she was stretched out on. She hadn’t noticed that before.

  She got up and poured herself a glass, drained it in one gulp and filled it again. The thought that she could be anywhere, miles from home filled her with dread. All the shades were drawn. She pulled the beaded tassel on the bottom of the shade nearest to her and peeked outside.

  Her stomach dropped. She’d never seen a desert before, but she didn’t have to, to know she was crossing one now. Vast expanses of buff-colored nothingness met her eye. Cactus, almost barren ground, and yellow mountains in the distance every direction she looked. The position of the sun told her it was high noon.

  She sat down again and buried her face in her hands, cursing Nat Tremayne. Then with determination she rose and ran to the door at the end of the car. Locked. Panic took hold of her now. Somewhere in her mind she registered her skirt was green. She didn’t own a green skirt. She’d examine that later. Right now, she had to get out of here. Another door sat next to this one. She tried the handle. It opened to reveal the toilet.

  Healy ran to the door at the other end of the car, passing lavish furnishings—Chairs and a divan in burgundy velvet, with ornately carved frames. She passed under a chandelier as she raced on a Turkish carpet running the length of the car.

  When she reached the other door, she expected it to be locked as well. The handle turned. Healy swung open the door and leapt out of the car. She stepped out into the very nothingness viewed from the window. The air was as hot and dry as an oven, and black soot flew past, filling her nostrils, stinging her eyes. She stood on an observation platform, suspended in this vision of hell.

  Images of marauding Indians with bloody scalps at their waists and outlaw gangs brandishing pistols on advancing horses came to mind. With a cry of alarm, Healy jumped back into the car and slammed the door.

  Leaning against the door with her heart pounding, she took in her opulent surroundings. Then she looked down at her skirt. It was a fine moss-green silk garment. Her earlobes felt heavy. She put her hand up and found she wore long, pendant earrings i
n place of her simple small drops.

  A mirror in a gilt frame on the wall reflected the lights. She crossed to it and looked at herself in surprise. Somehow she’d been dressed in a tight-fitting jacket of the same color and material as the skirt with green braiding and embroidery on the lapels. Two rows of black buttons held the jacket closed over a high-necked green blouse with a lace jabot.

  She’d never wear an outfit such as this. Her own wardrobe consisted of simple clothing in neutral tones. She plucked at the braiding around her cuffs. She hated calling attention to herself with unnecessary ornamentation.

  There was jewelry too. Pendant earrings of garnet clusters in the shape of flowers hung either side of her face. A matching brooch sat on her throat. Her hair...Someone had arranged it in an elaborate style.

  She flushed red with both anger and shame. Who had dressed her? Cato? Why did they find fault with her own clothes? Her own hairstyle?

  On a nearby desk sat a piece of paper with writing on it. She lurched for it.

  My, dear Miss Harrison,

  I apologize for the subterfuge. Cato quite correctly thought if you refused this job we needed a backup plan. We have your interests at heart.

  I imagine you’re spitting mad at the moment—and if I know you—scared too. Rest assured you will arrive at your destination safely. I had no choice. You were the only one I could assign this case.

  And to be honest, I have other motives for sending you out west. Please see this as an opportunity for personal growth. Have an adventure! Have a romance even!

  By way of compensation for the trauma I’ve caused you, please take the envelope I left for you.

  Yours, sincerely,

  Nat Tremayne

  P.S., Green really does suit you.

  Spitting mad didn’t even cover half of what she felt. Swearing, she found the envelope and ripped it open. Her hand stopped when she saw the stack of bills in there. More than enough for a return ticket back to St. Louis. That’s what she’d do first thing upon arriving in Tucson. She would march straight over to the ticket booth and get on the first train back.

  She recognized the gnawing in her stomach wasn’t only fear. Her empty stomach protested. How long had she gone without food? There was no way of gauging the time in this moving museum of a room. That was it. She felt on display. Like she was being observed.

  She was thinking that, when out of the corner of her eye she noticed a silver dome on the table, she was sure wasn’t there before. When she crossed over to it, she saw it was the kind of silver dome put over plates of food in restaurants. She put her hand on it. Warm to the touch. She lifted the dome off to be greeted by the smell of roast chicken.

  Half a chicken, roasted to a golden brown perfection took up most of the plate. But it wasn’t alone. A mound of mashed potatoes topped with glistening gravy made her mouth water. Green peas nestled between the chicken and potatoes.

  She’d set aside side time to be angry with Nat later. Healy pulled out a chair and sat herself in front of the feast. She picked up the heavy silverware and studied it. Scrollwork ran down the handles. Acanthus. She peered closer. The initials N and T were intertwined.

  With a keen eye, she did a quick scan around the car. Those two initials popped up everywhere, now she was looking for them. They were in the carving on the frames of the furniture, woven into the antimacassars protecting the chair backs from hair oil.

  Such excess. Who could afford this? For the first time it occurred to her that maybe Nat wasn’t one person, but a group of investors. She’d think about that later. Right now the aroma of roast chicken called to her. Picking up the fork, she speared a piece of chicken and then ran it through the gravy and potatoes before using her knife to mash peas into the morsel.

  When she put the food in her mouth she almost swooned. It had been a long time since she’d had a decent meal. Food at her boarding house typically consisted of stringy stew. Odd it was as hot as if it’d just come out of the kitchen.

  Before she’d even swallowed the first bite, the second was on the way to her mouth. She devoured the meal in the most unlady-like fashion, shoveling food into her mouth.

  Half way through her meal, her eyes grew heavy and the lids drooped. Healy just had time to make it back to the divan before sleep felled her once more.

  After that Healy drifted in and out of sleep for days. Sometimes waking to use the toilet, sometimes to eat—but she couldn’t guess how many days. Whenever she looked out the window the sun seemed to have remained at high noon. Is it always high noon in the west?

  Chapter Six

  A long whistle and a rude jolt woke Healy up. The train had stopped, and at last she would get out of this nightmare.

  She eased up to a standing position, discovering her legs were shaky. A hat rested on the table now where the dome had sat the night before. She crossed over to it and picked it up. A ridiculous hat. The felt hat matched the color of her new suit. Set around the crown, covered in green lace, were ostrich plumes so light they moved with her breath. Worse, a whole dead black bird adorned the front. She shuddered. And because it wasn’t garish enough, a wide yellow and red striped ribbon circled the crown, ending in a big stiff bow at the back. I wouldn’t be caught dead in this hat.

  The first thing to go would be the dreadful bird. She plucked it off. Next came all the plumes. She turned her hand to the ribbon, but when she saw removing it would damage the hat-doing more harm than good, she left the adornment on.

  She could hear activity out on the platform now. People were shouting and laughing. More whistles. Horses hooves beat a tattoo on the ground. Her heart soared with the knowledge she’d be out of this nightmare soon.

  With the hat now on her head, Healy looked at herself in the mirror. She gasped in surprise. The green brought out the gold and red highlights in her light brown hair. Her eyes and skin looked luminous.

  A small sound got her attention. She traced it to the locked door at the end of the car. The handle turned. She spun away, looking for something to defend herself if need be. Everything the right size for a weapon was fixed in position to tabletops. All except the litter from her hat. Would it be effective to brandish a dead bird at an assailant?

  The door swung open and to her relief, a uniformed man stepped in. "Tucson," he said, without meeting her eye.

  He retreated, leaving the door wide open. She noticed her handbag on the desk now. Her tapestry handbag that she owned, not someone else’s idea of what her handbag should look like. At least this item had passed muster. She looked inside and sighed with relief to see her glasses inside along with the envelope containing the money. There was a folded slip of paper next to the envelope. She took it out and unfolded it.

  The bag will do. You may keep it.

  Healy looked around, again with the feeling eyes were upon her. Before leaving, she stuck out her tongue at the empty compartment.

  Stepping out onto the platform felt unreal after all the time spent alone, trapped in a world of her own. The platform buzzed with activity of a destination reached. People disembarking and luggage and other freight being loaded onto carts seemed so strange to see after her long confinement.

  A man dressed in cowboy gear walked by and tipped his hat to her. She noticed, to her discomfort, that she had drawn a lot of attention. Folks were no doubt curious to see who had traveled in the private car. She stepped away from it, distancing herself from the means of her conveyance.

  The train depot and ticket booth were in her sights. Before Healy could move toward them, a tall, very thin man stepped in front of her. He wore a black suit and top hat, giving him the look of an undertaker. He held a placard up where painted in black letters, the name "Holly Harrison" stood out. The man nodded at her.

  "Healy Harrison," she said.

  He continued to hold her in place with a riveting gaze. It came to her then that she wasn’t going right back to St. Louis. When he turned to the side and motioned her forward, her feet had a mind of their own,
leading her in the direction he wanted her to move in.

  Outside the depot an open carriage stood, gleaming glossy black with gilt details and a padded leather bench seat. A black stallion with plumes of yellow and red in his headgear snorted and stomped his foot. Healy’s hand went to the ribbon in her hat.

  A woman seated on a rickety chair in front of a building across the street eyed her with interest. A crudely painted sign on the door said, "Wing Sing Laundry." Smoke billowed out of the chimney of the small building made out of irregularly shaped abode bricks. Through the open door, Healy caught a flurry of activity, unimaginable in this heat. A number of people were bent over basins or hanging clothes to dry on racks.

  The woman seated in front of the laundry had on a broad brimmed hat, so Healy couldn’t see her face clearly, but she sensed the woman’s eyes on her. She wore a boxy jacket with full sleeves and held a pipe with a long, curved, thin stem to her mouth with one hand.

  Just when Healy surmised the woman was Chinese, she put her pipe down and made the sign of the cross on her body, looking in the direction of the carriage the whole time.

  The gesture startled Healy. Welcome to the Arizona Territory. She jumped again when the man beside her, took her arm and helped her into the seat. Looking behind her, Healy saw her own carpetbags and briefcase already on the carrier.

  After seeing her seated, the man climbed in beside her. He cracked the reins and they were off with a lurch. It occurred to her, he’d never introduced himself.

  Tucson appeared bigger and busier than she expected. She thought she’d find herself in some crude frontier post, but she could almost be in St. Louis for all the bustle and scale of the town. Only it was different from home in other ways. Tall buildings lined the streets, but mainly the shops and dwellings were low. Some made out of abode, as if they’d risen straight out of the surrounding earth. There were also brick buildings and frame houses with ornamental woodwork features. Some buildings combined a mixture of all three styles.